


Skirting the Issue

by shihadchick



Category: due South
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-07
Updated: 2006-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray, Fraser, a walk, a challenge, some illicit activity.  All in a week's work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skirting the Issue

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://the-antichris.livejournal.com/profile)[**the_antichris**](http://the-antichris.livejournal.com/) for blowing off Herodotus to run this through a quick and dirty beta. The best line in the piece is, I think, from [](http://izzybeth.livejournal.com/profile)[**izzybeth**](http://izzybeth.livejournal.com/), many years back now, and I sincerely hope she won't mind my co-opting the epithet. (See above, re: time zones. Heh.)

Sometimes, 'my partner is a freak; a bona fide 100% too-polite Canadian freak' - and certified, Ray's seen the case notes and don't think he's not just waiting to razz Fraser about that whole committed-to-an-asylum thing, regardless of whether it was legally on the up-and-up and all - really is about the only way Ray can even begin to make sense of his life. As mantras go, it's not all that catchy. Bit too long, no real snap to it, never going to go platinum, and frankly every time he thinks it he has to add another adjective or two and it's just never going to fly.

Long and short of it is, though, that _is_ about all Ray's got to explain the situations he keeps finding himself in.

* * *

"You want to go where now, Fraser?"

"I thought we could take a walk down to the park. It's less than a mile away, Ray. And it would certainly give Diefenbaker a bit of exercise, before he ends up rounder than he is tall."

Ray's not quite sure how a deaf wolf can bark indignantly, but Dief certainly manages an admirable job of it and Fraser doesn't look the slightest bit abashed. Ray, on the other hand, is pretty damn sure that his expression isn't much different to the mutt's. Okay, a lot less facial hair and less in the nose (another way he's not Vecchio, and glad of it. Like he said, Ray's seen _pictures_ ), but all the same, he's not exactly panting at the prospect. Might've even gone a little squeaky in the voice there, at the idea, though that's fitting, at least.

Because one of the other things Ray's found out this week, one of the things that -for once- actually wasn't in that stack-three-bibles and make it sound even more implausible than hundreds of animals on one little boat size file they gave him when he took this gig, is all about Ray Vecchio, the good Sisters down at the convent school and 'Ms Fraser'. If it'd been anyone else-- God, if it'd been _Dewey_ , oh, that would've been sweet, but God is just apparently not that kind, so instead of laughing til he bust something important, Ray was just stuck slack-jawed (not his best look ever) wondering just what that would've looked like.

Cos, see, Fraser's a guy. A guy's guy, even, for all that chivalry and door-holding and polite speaking; he chases the _bad_ guys, he throws a punch that'll send you into next week, and he looks like he was born in uniform.

So Ray was finding it kinda hard to reconcile Fraser in a dress. Fraser. In a _dress_. He doesn't even want to think too hard about the rest of it, Jesus, pantyhose and make-up and, see, there's why he didn't need to go strolling down this garden path, because there are things guys do not need to be wondering about their very male partners. Cop partners. Not the other kind of partners. Not that Ray's ever wondered--

Ray's pretty sure he doesn't need a new girlfriend all that much if he can work up such a good argument just between him and himself.

So, back to his original thought, which was, he thinks, that it was just kinda kooky (not queer, he chants loudly, trying to drown out the back-of-the-mind voices which have found megaphones somewhere and hooked 'em up to a surround sound system that would probably make Ray nearly drool in real life, definitely this is not a time he needs to be even remotely going near the word queer) to think of Fraser dressed up like a girl. Not that he has any kind of a problem with men dressed as women. For one thing, he wouldn't have lasted two minutes in the two-seven if he did, given their regular clientele, and for another, it's not as if he's never done it himself. Ray does, if he says so himself (or if he let Stella speak for him, not that he's much in the habit of that these days), make a damn fine chick.

It's just-- _Fraser_. Seeing has gotta be believing.

Unfortunately (or fortunately) for him, after they had that whole bust-up down on the lake front, Fraser's gotten even better at that telepathy thing they have going, the silent language of look and gesture, and apparently what Ray'd just said in Eyebrow is "and when were you planning on demonstrating this undercover technique, Constable Fraser?"

Because he drove Fraser back to the Consulate after their shift (three arrests, all of which should stick come hell, high water or avalanche of rubber duckies - which, less entertaining than you'd think, or at least when they're stuffed with a small fortune in cocaine) and waited outside, tapping his fingers on the GTO's steering wheel and definitely not singing along with Lou Reed. And half an hour after that, which in Ray's books is a little quick for most women, but obviously Fraser's gotta fall down somewhere, the door opened and he was out of the car and ready to critique.

But then Fraser was on the stairs, slingback heels and a sleek pastel twin set, and Ray just had to sit and stare. Because Fraser? Fraser made that look good. He shouldn't, and he'd never have picked it ahead of time - that jaw and those shoulders, there was just no way that was right - but... it worked.

Course, Ray being Ray, he chased the compliments (and the dinner, they got Chinese and he let Fraser order but he paid, though that maybe had about as much to do with treating a lady as it did with Fraser's little habit of only carrying money of a not-green colour) with a challenge. Because Ray's competitive, and that little streak meant he couldn't let this one lie.

Which was why two days later he was perched on the corner of Fraser's desk, legs crossed at the knee (and Christ was that ever uncomfortable, but he was damned if he'd slip out of character that easily) with a lot of eyeliner gunked on and a shimmery dark skirt slit halfway to his hips. He hadn't bothered faking up breasts - for one thing he didn't exactly have access to the supplies on his own time, and for another he figured he could just be a bit on the flat-chested side. Wasn't like he wasn't skinny enough for it, at least.

And when he told Fraser he could do just it as well and settled on their next Saturday off for the reveal, he'd been thinking more along the lines of dinner round two, or maybe even a little dancing.

He hadn't been thinking 'get towed over miles of pavement in heels by a Mountie and his wolf intent on working off a few stray pounds'. Course, saying as much _now_ would be as close to quitting as never mind, so Ray just zipped his lips and walked.

By the time they get to the park and Fraser kneels to mouth something encouraging to Dief before he bounds off past the seesaw, Ray is about ready to toss in the heels, the role play and his pride. Before he can even open his mouth to start bitching, Fraser has his elbow and is guiding him to a bench right on the park boundary, seating both of them neatly beside a statue wearing an even more ridiculous hat than Fraser.

"Friend of yours?" Ray begins to ask, jerking his thumb towards the statue before stopping dead and staring with growing recognition. "Hey! It's the tin guy from the movie! Pretty neat, Fraser," and probably at this point Fraser should be making fun of him - the Chicago native - for never even knowing this park was here, but instead Fraser is just smiling carefully, just a little grin, but one that goes all the way up to crinkle around his eyes, glowing proudly over his surprise.

Ray leans back on his hands, arching his back, stretching the kinks out of his neck and letting his head fall back, eyes full of darkening sky before slumping back into his usual posture, turning to look at Fraser. Who's looking at him.

"You're not careful, you'll be carrying me back," and it's meant to be a joke, but somehow saying it makes him freshly aware of the dull ache in his feet, the bite of too-narrow pumps around his foot, and Ray bites at the corner of his mouth a second. Not a chance of going barefoot through this part of town, so it's the heels or nothing. But Fraser's not listening to what he's thinking this time, Fraser's bending over and answering a whole other question altogether, broad hands tugging Ray's foot up, encouraging him to pivot on the bench so that they're both facing in, bookends, and he's slipping Ray's shoe off, carefully setting it to the side before digging his thumbs into the ball of the foot, massaging along the arch, calloused fingertips catching in the thin stocking. And there's gotta be something there, some weird inhibition-lowering, brain-freezing switch there, because Ray's going limp and not even trying to bite back the whimper, because God, it feels good.

And Ray really shouldn't be enjoying Fraser's hands this much, it's definitely not in the guy code, but he's curling both his legs up onto the chill stone bench, toeing off the other shoe (falling unnoticed to the gravel) and nudging at Fraser's wrist until he shifts, one hand on each foot, rubbing smooth up and down, and Ray's growling low and pleased, ducking his chin towards his chest and glancing up at Fraser in appreciation.

Their eyes catch, and Ray yelps, because Fraser's thumb just dug in somewhere it sure wasn't supposed to, and _ow_ , but. But Fraser's looking at him, and Fraser's not looking away, and Fraser looks- Fraser looks hungry. Like he sees something he wants.

Like he sees something he's allowed to want.

Like Ray would ever tell him 'no'.

One hand slides smooth and hot up over Ray's heel, fingers curling around his calf, blunt nails tickling the back of his knee, and Ray wonders wildly whether there'll be _smoke_ rising in a few seconds because this has got to be the hottest thing he's felt in a long time, one touch that's about as innocent as Fraser is, and that? Is not very.

Ray chokes out Fraser's name, that's as far as he gets, and then they're a blur of motion, yanking-sliding-needing, more hands than there should be between them and by the time Ray's done blinking Fraser has him solidly by the hips and he's kneeling over Fraser's lap.

God, he's _kneeling_ over Fraser's _lap_ , and he's breathing kinda hard, they both are, and the whole world is shrinking down to blue eyes and a crooking mouth, and Ray just has to lean in- just has to lean in and _give_.

Fraser is warm and sturdy, thick patterned wool covering shivering fine skin. Fraser is strength and patience masking honour and duty, passion laced through the whole, driven. Fraser is moaning pornographically into Ray's mouth while his hand slides up and under Ray's skirt and somehow it seems like the most natural thing in the world, like it's just another thing they do. Like he always knew this was part of Fraser (part of him) and he could never explain this to anyone else, knows it doesn't seem to make sense in the fragile world outside of his own head, but this just fits. The confidence and assertion that no one else seems to notice, that Fraser hides under the guise of Constable Flustered and Decent, all wound up into one scorching moment.

Fingers are edging under the tops of his stockings (Ray hadn't bothered with garters), scraping over the dimples around his knees, and then Ray shifts, rocks, and without another word (without asking, and is Ray ever glad he doesn't need to ask) Fraser's palms slide up, dry and steady, nudging his legs further apart, sneaking under the fabric of his underwear, well into previously forbidden territory.

Ray tears his mouth away from Fraser's for a second, panting, nipping desperately along the line of his jaw, tongue painting a lewd stripe down his neck while he squirms, because Fraser is feeling him up, Fraser is groping him _in public_ , and God, but he wants to enjoy every second of this before either of them has to pretend like enough blood is getting to their brains to recall the little matter of public indecency laws.

Normally, given that this is Ray's life, and it's just _like_ that, this is about the time that a marauding purse-snatcher would come tumbling into them. That Lieutenant Welsh would find himself miles away from his apartment and out for a constitutional, just in the right place at the wrong time to catch one of his detectives doing something deeply illicit. That a rain of toads would come sweeping up from the Lake they call Michigan and land dead centre on their heads. That a tabloid photographer would decide to cover the Secret Lives of Canadians and tail Fraser because he was in the headlines more often than anyone else hailing from the Frozen North that Ray could think of (excluding hockey players, of course).

For once, though, fate backs off and so it's only Diefenbaker who comes trotting up to whine at them, a high-pitched tone that recalls them both to their senses, and Fraser whines almost in echo, taking one last reluctant swipe of his hand over Ray's dick, making him clamp his knees hard around Fraser's hips in protest before they're separating reluctantly (stickily) and Ray's hopping while he tries to find his other shoe, hoping desperately that the skirt is loose enough to hide the obvious hard-on just long enough for them to get back to his place.

Properly shod again, Ray backs off for just a moment, running shaking fingers through his hair (and how did that get messy, he could swear Fraser didn't get his hands up there - though the glint in Fraser's eyes that follows his movements suggests he'd best add a "yet" to that statement), feeling distinctly ruffled all over. None of which stops him grinning like an absolute idiot, or leaning in (stepping forward lightly and confidently, heels clicking on the path) to steal another kiss from Fraser before taking his arm and walking back to the Consulate, to Ray's car, to Ray's apartment.

After all, they were just another couple out for a walk before bed.

* * *

They don't talk much after that, don't need to. Ray'd always pictured this part (because, okay, he's had Fraser's tongue aiming for his tonsils now, say nothing of where his hands've been, so Ray is definitely man enough to admit he's _thought about this_ some) as involving a lot more talking, and a lot of Ray waving his hands and Fraser being either polite and freaking out (same thing) or trying to explain calmly why they shouldn't do this.

Turns out the reality is Ray driving - _not_ in the heels, thank you very much - quite a lot over the speed limit between the Consulate and his place, trying very hard to ignore the fingers kneading his thigh and pressing warmly into the creases of his skirt while Fraser very loudly doesn't say anything at all. He's telegraphing impatience clear enough for Vecchio to hear it clear over in Nevada, but he's not trying to explain or ask Ray anything just yet. Which is all to the good, because Ray figures they're _communicating_ well enough now as it is.

And there's stairs and a door and to Ray's surprise he manages to keep his hands empty long enough to get all the way inside, to lock up and kick the shoes back into the closet, to dump his coat by Fraser's on the back of the couch, and he doesn't take Fraser's hands until they're just inside Ray's bedroom. Bumping shoulders as they go through the doorway, and then their fingers are linking, heads tilting, kissing like they're sinking, and the pile of unwashed clothes (and that skirt would need drycleaning, if Ray had the balls to actually front up to his cleaner with it in that state, which he _so_ doesn't, meaning it's for the ragbag now) on the floor is growing by the minute, til they're on the bed, flush on top of the covers, the crocheted blanket scratching at Ray's shoulders, no longer Ray-in-a-skirt and Fraser the Mountie, but Ray and Benton, skin to skin, naked and all is right with the world.

There might be bruises the next day, on Ray's hips where Fraser had to hold him down while he swallowed around him, making him buck and jerk and come, and there'll be little red marks all around the collar of Fraser's henley, a trail Ray follows several times over the course of the evening, from just under his ear all the way south to his collarbone, though the most impressive one, the one that proclaims exactly what he's spent his Sunday doing, that one is hidden neatly under his belt; a way station beside his navel, where Ray had nuzzled and licked with fervour before moving onwards.

Turns out Ray feels just as strongly about equality in terms of giving truly freaking spectacular head as he does about cross-dressing.


End file.
